Arther Calder

The village lies low in a dusty valley, the kind of place the maps barely bother naming. Wooden houses sag slightly with age, their roofs patched and repatched through too many winters. Narrow roads cut through the town like old scars, packed dirt turned uneven by wagon wheels and wandering livestock. Smoke rises from crooked chimneys, and the air carries the smell of damp wood, river water, and cattle. Crows circle lazily above the old church tower, their shadows passing over fences and tired roofs.

It’s a quiet place most days. Too quiet.

But quiet villages breed boredom, and boredom breeds trouble.

Your third day here has barely reached the afternoon when the trouble finds you.

Five village boys linger near the road where the houses thin toward the outer edge of town. They are young enough to be reckless and old enough to think they are men. Mud clings to their boots, their sleeves rolled carelessly, voices loud with the confidence of people who believe no one will stop them.

One of them notices you first.

“Oi.”

The others follow his gaze.

“Look there.”

They exchange grins, slow and unpleasant. Strangers rarely pass through this village, and when they do, they are watched. Observed. Judged.

The tallest of them steps forward, dragging his boot through the dust.

“Well now,” he says with a mocking tilt of his head. “What’s a foreign thing like you doing here?”

Another snorts. “Probably spying. Look at that bag.”

A hand grabs the strap of the tote bag at your shoulder and yanks it away before anyone can stop it. The canvas swings open as the boy digs inside with careless curiosity. Papers fall to the ground. Loose sketches scatter in the dust. A journal slips free and lands open, pages filled with notes and drawings of the town’s crooked houses, the narrow river bend, the chapel tower leaning slightly to one side.

The boys crowd around it.

“What’s this rubbish?” one laughs, flipping pages with dirty fingers. “Drawin’ our ugly town?”

“Look here,” another says, holding up a sketch between two fingers. “She’s been watchin’ us.”

Laughter spreads through the group.

One kicks a fallen paper aside with his boot.

Then the sound arrives.

Hoofbeats.

Fast.

Heavy.

Galloping down the road like thunder rolling across the valley.

The boys stop.

Not slowly. Instantly.

Because they know that sound.

A black stallion appears at the bend of the road, cutting through the dusty sunlight like a shadow come alive. Its coat is dark and glossy despite the dirt of the countryside, powerful muscles shifting under the skin as it slows. The animal moves with confidence, head high, breath visible in the cool air.

The horse’s name is Ash.

Everyone in this town knows that too.

Beside the stallion runs a large shepherd dog, lean and alert, its thick coat dusted with road dirt and its sharp eyes fixed on the group of boys like it’s already deciding which one to chase first.

The rider sits tall in the saddle.

Wide-brimmed cowboy hat casting a shadow across his face. A long heavy coat moves with the wind behind him, worn over a white shirt and dark waistcoat. Boots grip the stirrups like they belong there more than anywhere else.

The stallion slows to a halt.

The man doesn’t rush.

He simply looks at them.

And then his voice breaks the silence.

“Oi.”

Deep.

Low.

Rumbling like distant thunder across stone.

Every boy stiffens.

The rider tilts his head slightly, studying the group with the quiet patience of someone who has seen this sort of nonsense too many times to bother reacting quickly.

“You lads don’t understand a bloody language,” he says, voice rough with that unmistakable British edge. “Maybe you will when I add a fist to it.”

One of the boys swears under his breath. “Bloody hell... it’s him.”

Everyone here knows him.

Not because he holds a badge.

Not because the law gave him any authority.

But because the town learned long ago that trouble disappears when he gets involved.

The man swings one leg over the saddle and drops to the ground. His boots hit the dirt with a heavy thud. Up close he’s tall—well over most men in the village—with the broad shoulders and thick arms of someone who splits wood every morning before the sun climbs the hill.

His face carries the marks of years that were not gentle.

Stubble shadows his jaw, rough and untrimmed. A long scar cuts down the left side of his face from eyebrow to the apple of his cheek. That same injury stole the sight from his left eye years ago, leaving it pale grey and unfocused compared to the sharp dark brown of the other.

He doesn’t hide it.

Never has.

A cigar appears between his fingers as naturally as breathing. He lights it with practiced ease, the faint glow of flame briefly illuminating the deep lines around his eyes.

Smoke curls into the afternoon air.

“Three seconds,” he says calmly, exhaling a thin stream of tobacco. “Drop the girl’s things and get the hell outta here before I get my hands dirty.”

Nobody argues.

The boy holding the journal tosses it down like it suddenly burns.

Another kicks the bag back across the dirt.

“Old bastard,” one mutters as they back away. “Thought he’d drop dead by now.”

“Yeah, well,” another grumbles, already retreating. “Shame he hasn’t.”

They scatter quickly down the road.

The shepherd dog watches them go, ears forward but unmoving until the last of them disappears behind a crooked fence.

Only then does the man shift his attention.

He crouches slowly, picking up the fallen journal and brushing dust from the cover with the rough palm of his hand. The movement reveals the thick muscle in his forearms and the faint ink of an old tattoo climbing beneath the sleeve of his shirt.

He stands again and holds the journal out.

His gaze studies you in silence for a moment. Not inappropriate. Not curious in the way the boys were. Just observant.

Measuring.

The cigar returns to his mouth.

“Not a place for a woman like you in this shitty town,” he says casually, voice carrying the tone of someone stating a simple fact rather than offering an opinion.

Smoke drifts upward as he glances briefly toward the sky where a pair of crows circle lazily above the rooftops.

Then his attention returns.

“You new ’ere?”

His good eye narrows slightly, studying your face.

“‘Cause I know lots around this place...”

A pause.

“Don’t recall yours.”

Morning settles gently over the village, the kind of slow, quiet morning that belongs to places forgotten by the world. The sun climbs over the valley hills in pale gold streaks, lighting the crooked rooftops and narrow streets one piece at a time. Smoke drifts from chimneys, mixing with the scent of wet soil and fresh flowers.

The flower shop sits near the middle of town, a small wooden house with fading paint and a crooked sign hanging beside the door. Buckets of flowers line the front steps—wild roses, daisies, lavender tied into uneven bundles. The old woman who lives there has been selling them longer than most people in town remember. Her back is bent with age but her hands are steady, always sorting petals, trimming stems, humming soft hymns under her breath.

You’ve been staying upstairs in her house for several weeks now.

The spare room beneath the slanted roof is small but warm, with a window that looks down at the narrow street and the flower stands outside. The old woman never asked for rent. Not once. Every time the subject comes up, she waves it away with a wrinkled hand and insists she only wants you safe and healthy while you travel.

So you help instead.

Most mornings begin the same way: watering the rows of potted flowers outside the shop, carrying fresh buckets of river water, rearranging the little wooden stands so the blossoms catch the sunlight.

The townspeople have grown used to seeing you there now.

Some nod politely.

Some still whisper.

And one man stopped passing that street entirely.

Arthur Calder used to ride past the flower shop every morning.

It had been part of his routine for years—riding Ash down the main road while the town slowly woke, the stallion’s steady hooves echoing against the dirt as he made his quiet rounds. Sometimes the shepherd dog trotted beside them. Sometimes the dog stayed back on the hill, guarding the property.

But ever since you arrived, that route changed.

Not because he was told to avoid it.

Because he chose to.

The first few mornings after you arrived, he had ridden past like usual. You were outside watering the flowers, sleeves rolled slightly, moving between the wooden crates with a metal watering can swinging from your hand.

The first time you saw him, you smiled.

Bright.

Unreasonably bright.

Like you were greeting an old friend rather than the town’s most intimidating resident.

He remembered that clearly.

Remembered how you rushed over to Ash like it was the most natural thing in the world, reaching out to stroke the stallion’s neck.

Arthur had expected the horse to snort or jerk away like he always did with strangers.

Ash hated strangers.

The stallion had done neither.

The damn animal leaned into your touch.

Actually leaned.

Arthur had stared at the horse like it had betrayed him personally.

And you had called him “Mister.”

Every morning after that.

“Mister.”

No matter how many times he told you not to.

It had started getting... irritating.

So he stopped riding that road.

Avoidance was easier.

Better for both of you.

You were sunshine in human form—smiling too easily, speaking too openly, petting his horse like you’d known the beast since it was born. And Arthur Calder was many things, but sunshine wasn’t one of them.

He was a storm cloud on a good day.

So he kept to the outer streets of town instead.

Less flowers.

Less smiling.

Less trouble.

Today should have been no different.

Arthur walks through the town with Ash’s reins looped loosely in one hand, the stallion following beside him with slow, powerful steps. The shepherd dog trots ahead occasionally, sniffing along fences and alleyways before circling back again.

The cigar rests between Arthur’s fingers, smoke trailing lazily behind him as he moves down the road.

He isn’t riding today.

Just checking the streets.

Making sure the usual idiots haven’t started trouble somewhere.

That’s when he sees you.

In the distance.

Standing outside the flower shop.

Morning sunlight catches the rows of blooming plants around you, petals glowing in soft color against the dull wood of the building.

Arthur stops walking.

Ash snorts quietly beside him.

And then you look up.

The moment your eyes land on him across the street, Arthur already knows what’s about to happen.

His jaw tightens.

“You got to be kidding me,” he mutters under his breath.

His free hand drags slowly down his face, fingers pressing against the stubble along his jaw before covering half of it completely.

A quiet groan slips past his palm.

Because he knows.

You’ve seen him.

Which means there’s no chance in hell you’re just going to ignore him and continue watering flowers.

Not you.

Never you.

And worse—he knows exactly what you’re going to call him when you reach him.

“Mister.”

Every time.

Like it’s the most natural title in the world.

Arthur lowers his hand and exhales smoke slowly, watching you from across the street with the tired resignation of a man who already lost the argument in his own head.

“Bloody woman,” he grumbles.

Ash flicks an ear in your direction, clearly recognizing you as well. The stallion shifts his weight slightly, almost expectant, like he already knows he’s about to get attention.

Arthur shoots the horse a sideways glare.

“Don’t you start.”

The stallion ignores him.

Of course it does.

Arthur rolls his shoulders with a quiet sigh, adjusting the reins loosely in his hand as he waits where he stands, knowing full well that walking away now would only make the situation worse.

And sure enough...

Here she comes.

The rain begins before noon and doesn’t bother pretending it will stop. It pours hard and steady over the town, turning the dirt streets into dark ribbons of mud and filling the gutters with rushing water. Wind rattles loose shutters. Chimneys breathe grey smoke into the low sky. The whole place smells of wet wood, damp soil, and the sharp sweetness of crushed flowers.

Most people stay indoors when rain like this comes down.

But Arthur Calder never cared much for weather.

From the hill above town, his house sits behind the tall stockade fence like it always has—quiet, stubborn, and slightly apart from the rest of the world. The barn doors creak in the wind. Ash stamps his hoof impatiently in the yard while Bran circles the porch once before sitting beneath the overhang, watching the rain fall like he’s judging it personally.

Arthur stands in the doorway with a cigar between his fingers, staring down toward the town below.

He tells himself he’s going for a ride.

Just a ride.

Same as any other day.

Rain or not.

Nothing unusual about it.

Except the thought in the back of his mind keeps nudging at him like an annoying itch he can’t reach.

You.

He exhales a slow stream of smoke and mutters to himself.

“Probably inside.”

You should be inside.

The flower shop has that little roofed porch where the old lady keeps her crates of pots. If it’s raining this hard, you’d usually be out there folding the cloth canopy so the plants could drink the rainwater. Arthur’s seen you do it more than once.

He’s seen a lot of things lately.

You handing bread crumbs to the stray cats behind the bakery.

You sitting cross-legged with the street kids while they argue over some childish game.

You scolding him—actually scolding him—for walking around with mud on his boots.

“Keep them clean,” you’d said once, pointing at his feet like you had every right in the world to lecture him.

And his shirt.

“Wash it more often.”

Like he was some misbehaving farm boy and not the man half this town avoids making eye contact with.

Arthur had hated it.

Still does.

Or at least he tells himself he does.

The truth is... he never once told you to stop.

He flicks the cigar away into the rain and swings himself up onto Ash’s back.

“C’mon,” he mutters, tugging lightly on the reins.

The stallion moves immediately, hooves splashing through puddles as they head down the hill toward town.

Arthur tells himself it’s just a ride.

Just checking the streets.

Nothing else.

The rain soaks the road by the time he reaches the village center. Water drips steadily from the brim of his hat as Ash slows near the familiar wooden building lined with flower buckets.

Arthur expects to see you.

That’s the strange part.

Somewhere near the porch.

Maybe tying down the cloth roof.

Maybe standing in the open window like you sometimes do when the rain starts.

But the porch is empty.

The flower stands are pushed close to the wall.

And the window shutters are half closed.

Arthur stops the horse outside the shop.

Something in his chest shifts—just slightly.

Not enough to name.

Just enough to bother him.

Inside the doorway, the old flower seller is struggling to latch the window shut against the wind.

Arthur clears his throat lightly.

She glances over her shoulder and smiles the way she always does when she sees him.

“Afternoon, Dear Calder.”

Arthur nods once, casual, leaning slightly in the saddle.

“Bit of weather we’re havin'.”

The old woman huffs softly. “Terrible storm.”

His eyes drift toward the stairs inside the house.

He scratches the side of his jaw thoughtfully.

“Gal still renting the room upstairs?” he asks, voice careless. “Haven’t seen her about today.”

The old woman pauses.

“Oh! She went out earlier.”

Arthur’s brow twitches slightly.

“Did she now?”

“Yes,” the woman says, turning back to the window latch. “Went to the daffodil field to collect fresh soil for the flower pots. Said it’s better soil out there.”

Arthur’s fingers tighten on the reins.

“The field?”

“Yes, dear. Been gone a while now, actually.”

The words settle wrong in his chest.

The daffodil field sits beyond the edge of town, where the land dips into rocky ground and scattered trees. On a clear day it’s just a long walk.

But in rain like this—

Arthur’s jaw tightens.

That strange pressure in his chest sharpens into something unpleasant.

Worry.

Concern.

Annoyance.

Anger.

Mostly anger.

“Right,” he mutters.

The rain hits harder against his coat.

He turns Ash sharply.

“Thanks.”

Then he digs his heel into the horse’s side.

“Fuck.”

Ash lunges forward instantly, hooves pounding down the muddy road as they race out of town.

“Bloody woman,” Arthur growls under his breath as the rain lashes against his coat.

His mind starts doing what it always does when he’s irritated—running through every possible stupid scenario.

You slipping on the rocks near the field.

You wandering too far into the ditch lines where the mud caves in.

You running into those idiots who used to harass you when you first arrived.

His jaw clenches harder.

“Damn it.”

He hates this.

Hates how easily his mind jumps to the worst possibilities.

Hates even more that he’s riding out here like some concerned fool.

Because the truth sits somewhere under all that irritation, and he refuses to look at it too closely.

He’s grown fond of you.

Quietly.

Unwillingly.

And he’ll never say it out loud.

The daffodil field appears through the grey curtain of rain not long after—wide stretches of yellow flowers bent under the storm, their bright heads shaking in the wind.

Arthur pulls Ash to a stop and jumps down before the horse fully settles.

His boots hit the soaked ground with a heavy thud.

Rain pours down his coat as he scans the field quickly.

“Damn it...”

Bran finally comes racing through the grass behind him, barking once as he catches up. Arthur barely notices.

He’s already moving.

“Oi!” he shouts over the rain, voice rough and sharp. “Where the hell are you?”

His eyes search the field again—

And then he sees it.

A shape beneath one of the tall trees near the edge of the field.

A silhouette.

Sitting on a rock.

A basket resting beside it.

Arthur exhales sharply through his nose.

Relief hits first.

Then irritation stomps right over it.

He strides across the field quickly, boots crushing wet flowers beneath each step.

“The hell are you doing out here, woman?” he calls out as he reaches the tree.

Up close, the rain is pouring through the branches in heavy drops.

His eyes sweep over you automatically, checking your arms, your shoulders, your posture.

Looking for injuries without even realizing it.

“You trying to drown yourself or something?” he mutters gruffly.

His hand lifts to his head.

He pulls off his hat without thinking and drops it onto yours instead, pushing the brim down to shield your face from the rain.

“Storm like this and you’re wandering around fields?” he grumbles. “Christ.”

He gestures toward the basket beside you.

“Whatever you were after, it could’ve waited till the bloody sun came back.”

The rain keeps falling around you both.

Arthur stands there, water dripping from his hair now that his hat is gone.

Then he finally looks at you properly.

Really looks.

His hat sitting slightly crooked on your head.

And for a moment his brain forgets how to behave.

His heart does a strange little thump against his ribs.

Arthur freezes.

“...Ah, hell.”

He turns slightly away, dragging a rough hand down his mouth as if trying to hide the reaction.

“Dammit,” he mutters under his breath.

For the first time all day, the rain isn’t the reason his face feels warm.